Aspiring
by ResydulDamage
Summary: Kristy is an aspiring rock star in Dying Blood, a Seattle band. Al she wants is for DB to make it big. But thousands of things are standing in her way. Will her band make it? Does she even want to be in the band? What's left of her life? badsumgoodstory!


**A/N: Hey guys I'm finally back! This is a new kind of thing I'm working on. I've never done a story like this before, so cut me some slack! I have been working on this storyline for months though. It'll get waaayyy better as it progresses cuz my first chapters always suck :( happy reading!**

September 1

You might not believe this, but this is my very first time writing in a journal. I'm not really sure how this goes.

You see, the only reason I'm doing this is because when my band is known worldwide and the _Rolling Stone _wants to do a story on me, they can just use this. I'm not really one for interviews. Oh, and my friend Nikki pretty much gave me a death threat. She says writing things down is "therapeutic," but I know she just wants to read all my thoughts.

I decided to start at a point that seems to fit as a good starting point: the first day of my senior year at high school.

One more year of average teenager bullshit, then I'm free. And it might not even be a year if my band gets signed. Then we can record an album, tour the world and forget about all the bitches and assholes that plague our high school and junior high years.

Ah, dreams.

But for now, I'm just a 17 year-old outcast in an unheard-of, one horse town just 20 minutes from the grunge capitol of America: Seattle.

Edminton, the tiny town I live in, is a quite strange little place. Here, if you're not a preppy little whore dressing in the latest trends, you're a freak, an outcast.

I mean, I'm not complaining. There are tons of misfits hanging around. No one knows why, there just are.

And I'm not talking those irritating little wannabes who wear black and listen to My Chemical Romance and call themselves "emo." I'm talking about _real_ outcasts, ones who don't believe in labels and have strong ideals. Nonconformists.

Sure, you have those stupid wannabes, but they really don't get anywhere. No one, not even the populars, gives them any attention. They usually hang in packs and try to wedge their way into the groups of people like me, who are true to themselves.

My point is, there are some pretty cool people here. We get shoved around and beat-up, but we stick together. I really love Edminton.

Anyways, today was the first day of the last year of hell.

I woke up to the shriek of that little fucker, the alarm clock. Does anyone actually _like_ their alarm clock? I think not. It's just a mess of metal and wires that is committed to reminding you every morning that the short bliss of sleep is over and the real world awaits. That, and they're just fucking annoying.

I spent about four minutes whacking the thing with my heavy-as-lead arm until it finally shut up.

The shower helped a little bit in waking me up, but I was still a zombie.

After dressing in all black and slathering my face with white foundation, heavy black eyeliner and shadow, and black lipstick, I did my spiky black scene hair (that alone takes like 45 minutes). Okay, so I sound like one of the wannabes. But trust me, I'm not. Just because I like the color black and have scene hair does not, by any means, make me one of them. I have my own ideas and principals and I'm not trying to be anything. I dress, look, and act how I want. I am myself, and if you want to label me then that's your problem. Not mine.

Still dragged down by sleep, I trudged into the kitchen to make myself a cup of black caffeine.

The coffee was hardly in my mouth when I heard the front door swing open.

Enter Wilson, my bestest friend and fellow musician. He's a bassist and I'm a regular guitarist (although I do play piano as a bonus).

"Happy first day of school!" He called cheerily as he made his way into the way-to-large kitchen. He had a huge cup of Starbucks coffee in his hand, which he set down on the granite counter that I was sitting at.

I grumbled unintelligibly. "What's so happy about it?" I asked. "And how the hell did you have time to go to Starbucks? Your hair takes longer than _mine_."

"Couldn't sleep so I got up early."

"God, you have too much energy." I took another long drink of my coffee.

"_I_ don't, but Five Hour Energy does," he admitted, also sipping his drink.

Wilson and I look a lot alike. He pretty much has the guy version of my hair. We both have snake bites (that's double lip piercings, for you idiots who don't know). We both dress in all black. We both have black hair, blue eyes, and thin frames. We get called twins a lot.

His style is pretty much a band T, black sweatshirt, black skinny jeans, black high tops and studded belt. He accessorizes sometimes.

My style is harder to explain. I wear short skirts or shorts with patterned tights or fishnets, a band T, tank top, or corset, Chuck Taylor high tops, concord platform boots, or Doc Martins, and plenty of chains, studs, skulls, and belts. I am always wearing at least one studded belt, no matter what. And I sometimes like to add a leather jacket.

Wilson and I became friends when we were 6 and he moved next door. His mom introduced us and he right away admired my Batman T-shirt. We then had a very long conversation about the Caped Crusader and decided we'd be best friends forever. We made bracelets in art class and used them as a formality of the Friendship Pact.

The Pact has been working pretty damn well, seeing as though he is my very best friend and I'm his.

So we spent a few minutes talking casually about school and other shit as I started to wake up, then began to make our way to Edminton High, AKA hell.

We've been walking to school together since 2nd grade, even though we both have cars now. It's good exercise, it's free, and we get to spend more time together.

That's another thing about me and Wilson. We are almost always together. We never get sick of each other. We're not like siblings though, since we don't fight hardly at all and we're way closer. I guess that's just what happens with 11 years of friendship.

I'm not going to bore you by dragging on about school like the girls in teen novels.

I'm also not going to go on and on about how sad it is that I get bullied and "everyone hates me" and "I have no friends" and all that bullshit. I mean, let's face it, it's high school. We all get shoved around in one way or another. Some of us more or worse than others, but we all get it. And the truth is, I have plenty of friends. That's one of the many bonuses of outcast tiny towns. The freaks stick together.

This might shock you, but I kinda like school. I never do any of the work, I get to hang out with my friends, we sometimes smoke pot in the bathrooms, and all day we get to cause havoc on the teachers, whores, and preps.

High school is my little game of manipulation and fun. If you know what you're doing, it makes everything more fun.

Not doing any work is a bonus. I know my band is gonna get signed, so why waste time on plans for college and trying to suck up to teachers so they'll recommend you when you can be flying high, not giving a fuck?

Don't worry, you'll get used to my fucked up reasoning shortly.

So after 3 hours of not behaving in class, I miraculously made it to lunch.

Finding my table was easy. Look for the group of weirdoes sitting at the only circular table in the cafeteria.

For some reason, we all love sitting in circles. No one knows why. It's just kinda our thing.

"Kristy!" My friend, Adam, waved me over like I actually needed help on finding our table. One look at the flower child and I knew he was high off his ass. I smiled to myself.

After Wilson, Adam is probably the one I'm closest to. I owe him my life for introducing me to the Grateful Dead and drugs. We share a Dead obsession now.

"Hey Adam," I responded, also acknowledging the rest of my friends along with him. It always makes me laugh how Adam sticks out so much in the sea of black at our round table.

"KRISTY I HAVE THE BEST NEWS YOU WILL EVER HEAR EVERRRRRR!" Amber, the punk rocker, shouted. She gets high on her own hyperness. That, or 10 bags of Skittles.

"Let me guess, you came up with a chord progression for your song that will be the best song I ever hear everrrrrr?" I prompted sarcastically, sitting down next to Wilson. Amber is a fellow guitarist in our band. We never really decided which one of us was lead or rhythm guitarist. I usually play rhythm because I also sing, but I'm the one who rips out the lengthy, complicated solos. So I guess we kind of switch on and off, depending on the song.

"Noo_, better_!" By now, Amber was literally bouncing up and down in her seat. Yep, definitely too much colorful candy.

"Just tell me!" I demanded.

"We got the fair gig!" She squealed, her blood-red hair still shaking violently from her bouncing.

"What? At Evergreen?" I asked. I couldn't help but smile. We had been wanting this for a few months now. "Why did they decide so late? The fair's already going on."

"The act booker dude person didn't want any bands that weren't big names, but they were under-booked so he let us in!"

"That's amazing!" I exclaimed. Dying Blood, our band, mostly does rock clubs in Seattle like the Off Ramp, so a gig where hundreds of people would be is huge for us. We play most at this 2003-style goth club that used to be a fire station. It started out with no name, so people just called it the Station, and now they have a giant neon sign that says "THE STATION."

"I KNOW! Last minute decisions are the BEST!" Amber was back to shouting.

"Shit, man, we gotta decide which songs to play," Reece, another punk and Dying Blood's bassist, spoke up. Reece and I were also really close. You probably already guessed this, but I'm closest to the guys in our group. I was raised by only my father and brother, so I'm more comfortable socializing with males.

"I think you should stick to your more subtle songs. You're not playin' the Station, man. There's gonna be connies and shit," Damian, a classic goth, suggested. In case you're wondering, _connies_ is our word for people of modern and popular culture. It's short for conformist.

"Nah, man, what if there's a talent scout there? If we get signed as a pop band, we'll be known as a pop band," I said.

"How can you get signed as a pop band? You guys don't have any songs _near_ pop," Wilson, bless his heart, said. That was the ultimate compliment. Reece perked right up.

"I know!" Amber agreed, still hyper.

"I gotta agree with Kristy on this. We should play how we always play. If the people there don't like our sound, that's their bad," Reece stated.

"Thank you," I said. "Let's just play our best songs and if the talent scouts like us, then they like us. That's all there is to it."

We continued talking like this for the rest of lunch period, then went our separate ways when the bell rang. The rest of school was pretty uneventful.

I got really sick of all the little preppy girls hugging each other and saying things like "Girl, you look so great!" and "You are soo tan!" or "Girl, did you lose weight?"

I swear all preps make it a point to sound as bitchy and alike as they possibly can.

"Is it fun being in a band?" Wilson asked me on the way home from school.

"I guess, I mean, it's a lot of hard work and we're always fighting, and sometimes it just feels like it's more about an image than the music and-"

"You don't have to spare me, Kristy," Wilson interrupted.

"It's so much fun!" I exclaimed. "Alex has this amazing sound and it's really cool how he holds the band together!" Alex is our drummer. He's homeschooled so none of us sees him too much. "And Reece, damn, he can play! And he's always talking about these wicked traditional punk ideals. You can learn the world from him! Amber's bouncin' around all the time, she really has spirit. And when we play… fuck, man, when we play it's just like everything is us. Like, it doesn't matter what people think, it doesn't matter how well-known we are, what we're doing, or anything! It's just the music, me, and my guitar. I don't know, man, I can't explain it. It's just..."

"Yeah, I bet," said a sad looking Wilson. Guilt immediately rushed through me.

"Shit, Wilson, I'm sorry. I didn't mean," I started, not knowing what to say.

"It's okay, I get it. I'm really happy you have the opportunity," he said, smiling. Wilson always knows how to make anyone feel better. He's just like that.

"Hey, you _know_ if we needed a bassist you'd be the first one I'd go to. It's just, Amber started the band and you know how she is about Reece and stuff, and there really wasn't anything I could-"

"Kristy! Slow down you're talking faster than I can think! I was just wondering what it's like, it's really okay."

I was silent. I didn't know what to say. And before I knew it, we were home.

"You wanna get a drink or something? Pete's car isn't in the driveway; he's probably not home."

"Your brother, the college party kid." Wilson laughed.

"Does that mean yes?"

"It means most definitely." Wilson ran into the house, me trailing close behind him.

We broke out the hard stuff, tequila and vodka, out of the cabinet and got drinking. Soon enough, we were laughing our asses off, dancing to a Shane Dawson parody of some pop song.

This, this is our usual afternoon activity. You might think it's immature or childlike to count on alcohol for fun, but hat just means you've never tried it. And we _could_ have fun without it, but dancing just isn't quite the same without a good buzz filling up the space of your mind.

Pete, my brother, always tells me that the shit is bad and I shouldn't be drinking and stuff, but then he comes home from a college party, so drunk he doesn't even know who's house he's at.

My family is kind of screwed up. And by _family,_ I mean me and Pete. My rock star daddy passed 3 years ago, leaving Pete and I (especially me) in utter despair. I shut out the world for months.

Eventually, I decided to touch base with the outside world again, but I never really got over it.

Dad and I were extremely close. He taught me how to play the guitar and piano. He was quite the musician, the lead guitarist for one of the world's biggest 80's metal bands, Carpal Crunch.

There's not much to say about my mother. She walked out when I was only a few months old and none of us talked to or saw her ever again.

Well anyways, my apologies, I didn't want to go down a dark road such as this.

Wilson and I were having a grand time, our tiny little personal party giving us the greatest form of entertainment at the time.

Then my phone burst into life, playing the opening of "Fuck" by Bring Me the Horizon. It took me a few seconds to realize my phone was ringing. I ran to it as fast as I could and picked it up

"Hello?" I answered.

"Kristy…" Amber started. Her voice was weak with tears.

"What? What's wrong?"

"It's-it's-" Her voice was cut off by a thrust of sobs. She was crying her eyes out, and Amber never cried. I was instantly worried.

"It's okay, Amber, what's the matter?"

"What's wrong? Is she okay?" Wilson asked me, his voice all slurred, like mine probably was.

I waved my arm spastically, signaling him to shut up.

"Reece," Amber managed to say. The sobbing returned.

"What's wrong with him?_ Is_ there something wrong with him?" I was starting to get skeptical. Knowing Amber, this was probably blown way out of proportion by her drama. You see, Amber has been in love with Reece since, like, sixth grade or something like that. And I _mean_ in love. My guess was that he probably got a girlfriend or something like that.

"He's hurt," Amber choked. "He's really hurt,"

**A/N: Hello again! Hope you enjoyed! Again, it is going to get way better, and yes, it DOES have a story line! Keep reading for the good stuff! I'll post another chapter if I get some reviews! Bye-bye now. **


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